ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.
SHE came-she is gone-we have met— And meet perhaps never again;
The fun of that moment is fet,
And seems to have rifen in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream- (So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But has left a regret and esteem That will not fo fuddenly pafs.
The last evening-ramble we made, Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delay'd
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paus'd under many a tree,
And much fhe was charm'd with a tone
Lefs fweet to Maria and me,
Who had witness'd fo lately her own.
My numbers that day fhe had fung,
As only her musical tongue
Could infufe into numbers of mine.
The longer I heard, I efteem'd
The work of my fancy the more,
And e'en to myself never feem'd So tuneful a poet before.
Though the pleafures of London exceed In number the days of the year, Catharina, did nothing impede, Would feel herself happier here; For the close-woven arches of limes, On the banks of our river, I know, Are fweeter to her many times
Than all that the city can fhow.
So it is, when the mind is endued With a well-judging tafte from above,
Then, whether embellish'd or rude, 'Tis nature alone that we love. The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite,
But groves, hills, and vallies, diffuse A lafting, a facred delight.
Since then in the rural recefs Catharina alone can rejoice, May it ftill be her lot to poffefs The scene of her fenfible choice
To inhabit a manfion remote
From the clatter of ftreet-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note
To measure the life that the leads.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, To wing all her moments at home, And with scenes that new rapture infpire As oft as it fuits her to roam,
She will have juft the life fhe prefers, With little to with or to fear,
And ours will be pleasant as hers, Might we view her enjoying it here.
A HERMIT (or if 'chance you hold That title now too trite and old). A man, once young, who lived retired As hermit could have well defired, His hours of fludy clofed at last, And finish'd his concise repaft, Stoppled his crufe, replaced his book Within its cuftomary nook,
And, ftaff in hand, fet forth to fhare The fober cordial of sweet air, Like Ifaac, with a mind applied To ferious thought at evening-tide, Autumnal rains had made it chill, And from the trees that fringed his hill Shades flanting at the close of day Chill'd more his else delightful way. Diftant a little mile he spied
A western bank's still funny fide,
And right toward the favour'd place Proceeding with his nimbleft pace, In hope to bask a little yet, Juft reach'd it when the fun was fet. Your hermit, young and jovial firs! Learns fomething from whate'er occurs- And hence, he said, my mind computes The real worth of man's purfuits. His object chofen, wealth or fame, Or other fublunary game, Imagination to his view
Prefents it deck'd with ev'ry hue That can feduce him not to spare
His pow'rs of beft exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour, to expend
On fo defirable an end.
Ere long, approach life's evening fhades, The glow that fancy gave it fades;
And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace Which firft engag'd him in the chase.
True, answer'd an angelic guide, Attendant at the fenior's fide- But whether all the time it coft
urge the fruitless chase be loft,
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